#14 The Beaverlick Gazette: Cleveland Fritch, Editorial, and Community Notes
Beaverlicker Of The Week: Cleveland Fritch
by Manny Polewhacker
Just outside the town of Beaverlick, at the far end of Dog Lick Lake, is one of the oldest houses in the area: a quaint, modest four room clapboard home that sits on a little hill, under a canopy of tall oak trees, surrounded by flowers and guarded by two ferocious ducks named “Gorgon: Destroyer Of Worlds” and “Bonzo”.
The man who lives inside that lovely little abode happens to be Beaverlick’s oldest Beaverlicker: Cleveland Fritch or, as his friends and family call him, “Slatz”.
Slatz Fritch is one hundred and twenty years old; an amazing feat of longevity that Slatz chalks up to five things: clean living, a shot of whiskey in the morning, good cigars, a shot of whiskey at night, and a LOT of sex. When asked how the whiskey, cigars, and sex defined the concept of “Clean Living”, he replied: “Well, I’m alive, ain’t I? And I took a bath in the lake this morning, didn’t I? Therefore, clean living.”
We sat together on the front porch of his humble home and talked about Mr. Fritch’s long and eventful life. One of Slatz’s earliest memories is the start of one of our town’s oldest celebrations: “Potbuckle Day”.
“One of the first cars in town was owned by Annie Potbuckle, a woman whose father owned the old Beaverlick Rendering Plant which is the building that they have the grade school in now. She was a haughty, horrible woman; the kind of woman that thinks she farts rainbows,” he said, drawing deeply on a big stogie. “Thing was, she was a big woman. Huge. A land whale. One day she tripped as she got out of her car and fell right in front of The Beaverlick General Store, which is now Barnhoffer’s Shirts, Shoes n’ Shinola, I think. Anyway, she couldn’t get up off the sidewalk, and a few men came to help her, and they couldn’t get her up. Pretty soon, all of the town had turned out and all the businesses stopped so that all the working men in town could figure a way to get this elephant sized woman up off the ground.”
Slatz grinned as he began to blow smoke rings that wafted past me. “Eventually, families had gathered across the street with food in picnic baskets, and the town band started playing as all the men began to build a crane to get this yard rhinoceros up off the ground. From that day on, we celebrate Potbuckle Day when families get together to eat, men complete to carry the heaviest things they can find, and in 1911, we started having the Miss Potbuckle contest.”
Slatz has been married three times and has 27 children, 63 grandchildren, 85 great-grandchildren, and one great-great grandchild. “I have a note book with their names,” he says with a sigh. “Every time the family gets together, there is another one or two crotch nuggets running around. Everyone has to wear name tags. I guess you could say that the Fritch’s are a fertile family. We have the little ankle biters dropping every other day.”
I asked him about his wives. “Well, I married Nellie Dringemiter when her and I were just sixteen years old, and that was the year I started working for my father’s rock grinding business. She started dropping diaper puppies right away. She died when she was walking down the street in downtown Beaverlick on a windy day and Doc Murvlow’s office sign fell on her head. Then I married Thelma Tittle, the town librarian. I don’t know what it was about her, whether it was the repression of having to live up to a reputation of a prim and proper spinster in a very small town, but she was a twisted, weird degenerate in the sack.”
He looked at me with a grin: “I’m not going into detail, but I can say that after the fifth child I had with her, Robert,…Randy… Ringo…whatever his name is, I had to stop having sex with her for almost six months because, you know, she broke me,” he grins, lighting his stogie again.
“Thelma died when I was 67,” he explains. “She was standing on a ladder at the library putting away a copy of the ‘The Wit And Wisdom Of Yogi Berra’ and she fell off the ladder and pulled the bookcase down on her,” he said sadly. Her last words were, “Tell Slatz the keys to the handcuffs are in my jewelry box.”
Now, Slatz is married to Tina Cramblat, former cabaret performer, exotic dancer, and Tupperware saleswoman. “By the time I married Tina, I had the biggest rock grinding business in the state. I suspect she only married me for my money, but with a body like that, who cares?”
I asked Slatz about his business: what attracted him to rock grinding?
“I like the sound of rocks being ground up,” he explained. “I find the sound very soothing”. And what kind of people does Slatz do business with the most?
“People who want to buy ground up rocks,” he said; spitting into the petunias by the side of the porch.
When asked about his future plans, Slatz leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Son, when you are a hundred and twenty years old, the only future plans you make is to keep breathing,” he said. “Tina got me a copy of the Kama Sutra. I will be lucky to make it to next week!” he chuckled.
When I asked Slatz what the secret is to living a long life, he was succinct and to the point: “Don’t be an idiot, and try not to die.”
by Manny Polewhacker
Just outside the town of Beaverlick, at the far end of Dog Lick Lake, is one of the oldest houses in the area: a quaint, modest four room clapboard home that sits on a little hill, under a canopy of tall oak trees, surrounded by flowers and guarded by two ferocious ducks named “Gorgon: Destroyer Of Worlds” and “Bonzo”.
The man who lives inside that lovely little abode happens to be Beaverlick’s oldest Beaverlicker: Cleveland Fritch or, as his friends and family call him, “Slatz”.
Slatz Fritch is one hundred and twenty years old; an amazing feat of longevity that Slatz chalks up to five things: clean living, a shot of whiskey in the morning, good cigars, a shot of whiskey at night, and a LOT of sex. When asked how the whiskey, cigars, and sex defined the concept of “Clean Living”, he replied: “Well, I’m alive, ain’t I? And I took a bath in the lake this morning, didn’t I? Therefore, clean living.”
We sat together on the front porch of his humble home and talked about Mr. Fritch’s long and eventful life. One of Slatz’s earliest memories is the start of one of our town’s oldest celebrations: “Potbuckle Day”.
“One of the first cars in town was owned by Annie Potbuckle, a woman whose father owned the old Beaverlick Rendering Plant which is the building that they have the grade school in now. She was a haughty, horrible woman; the kind of woman that thinks she farts rainbows,” he said, drawing deeply on a big stogie. “Thing was, she was a big woman. Huge. A land whale. One day she tripped as she got out of her car and fell right in front of The Beaverlick General Store, which is now Barnhoffer’s Shirts, Shoes n’ Shinola, I think. Anyway, she couldn’t get up off the sidewalk, and a few men came to help her, and they couldn’t get her up. Pretty soon, all of the town had turned out and all the businesses stopped so that all the working men in town could figure a way to get this elephant sized woman up off the ground.”
Slatz grinned as he began to blow smoke rings that wafted past me. “Eventually, families had gathered across the street with food in picnic baskets, and the town band started playing as all the men began to build a crane to get this yard rhinoceros up off the ground. From that day on, we celebrate Potbuckle Day when families get together to eat, men complete to carry the heaviest things they can find, and in 1911, we started having the Miss Potbuckle contest.”
Slatz has been married three times and has 27 children, 63 grandchildren, 85 great-grandchildren, and one great-great grandchild. “I have a note book with their names,” he says with a sigh. “Every time the family gets together, there is another one or two crotch nuggets running around. Everyone has to wear name tags. I guess you could say that the Fritch’s are a fertile family. We have the little ankle biters dropping every other day.”
I asked him about his wives. “Well, I married Nellie Dringemiter when her and I were just sixteen years old, and that was the year I started working for my father’s rock grinding business. She started dropping diaper puppies right away. She died when she was walking down the street in downtown Beaverlick on a windy day and Doc Murvlow’s office sign fell on her head. Then I married Thelma Tittle, the town librarian. I don’t know what it was about her, whether it was the repression of having to live up to a reputation of a prim and proper spinster in a very small town, but she was a twisted, weird degenerate in the sack.”
He looked at me with a grin: “I’m not going into detail, but I can say that after the fifth child I had with her, Robert,…Randy… Ringo…whatever his name is, I had to stop having sex with her for almost six months because, you know, she broke me,” he grins, lighting his stogie again.
“Thelma died when I was 67,” he explains. “She was standing on a ladder at the library putting away a copy of the ‘The Wit And Wisdom Of Yogi Berra’ and she fell off the ladder and pulled the bookcase down on her,” he said sadly. Her last words were, “Tell Slatz the keys to the handcuffs are in my jewelry box.”
Now, Slatz is married to Tina Cramblat, former cabaret performer, exotic dancer, and Tupperware saleswoman. “By the time I married Tina, I had the biggest rock grinding business in the state. I suspect she only married me for my money, but with a body like that, who cares?”
I asked Slatz about his business: what attracted him to rock grinding?
“I like the sound of rocks being ground up,” he explained. “I find the sound very soothing”. And what kind of people does Slatz do business with the most?
“People who want to buy ground up rocks,” he said; spitting into the petunias by the side of the porch.
When asked about his future plans, Slatz leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Son, when you are a hundred and twenty years old, the only future plans you make is to keep breathing,” he said. “Tina got me a copy of the Kama Sutra. I will be lucky to make it to next week!” he chuckled.
When I asked Slatz what the secret is to living a long life, he was succinct and to the point: “Don’t be an idiot, and try not to die.”
The Beaverlick Gazette Editorial
by Dick Holder
Dearest readers and dearer citizens of Beaverlick, before I continue, I insist on expressing my gratitude to the Gazette’s editorial board for, once again, allowing me, most magnanimously, the opportunity to commandeer space in this august journal for the express purpose of making known the state of Beaverlick. My indelible thanks to the board.
It was but 198 years ago, this Fall that Oriol Lick got hiself a peck a woe when he’d stepped in one of his own infamous beaver clap traps. Having regained consciousness some hours later at the fall of eventide, he found a family of beavers, kits as well, five in all, licking his leg wounds- where the broken bone pierced the epidermis. Oriol reckoned then and there he’d been spared septicemia, and sure death. Then and there, so the legend goes, Oriol repented of hunting beaver; professed he would devote his life to the propagation of beavers, the care of beavers, the freedom of beavers and the everlasting contentment of beavers… and the protection of their habitats.
Oriol Lick House:
Oriol Lick built hisself a cabin on the high bank and and a large mound known today as Beaver Mound. He named the homestead Beaverland. Thirty-five years later a village stood where once there was a lone cabin. Upon the death of Oriol, he fell off Beaver mound ’n’ rolled into a wild briar patch. Brer Buckley Perwinkle found him two days later after a two day search where they looked in all the wrong places – village elders renamed Beaverland to incorporate both Oriol’s favorite pastime -beavers and Oriol Lick hisself. And Beaverlick was put on the map.
As we celebrate, this Fall, the founding of Beaverlick, nee Beaverland, it is well that we remind ourselves that in two years time Beaverlick will celebrate its bicentennial. Preparations have already commenced and I urge every Beaverlicker to join in. In two years time we will demonstrate to the nation our municipal pride, boundless devotion, civic harmony, and love of Beaverlick.
The first order of business will be the erection, on Beaver Mound, of the Oriol Lick and Five Beavers Monument. The statue in bronze on white limestone plinth will welcome travelers as they approach Beaverlick just off I 81 and onto Beaverlick highway leading to Beaverlick proper. This is long past due. The original monument had been shelled to smithereens by Yankee cannon in the Battle of Beaver’s Mound in October of 1864.
The election of Committee Officers will take place during the town council meeting this first Tuesday of this coming September. Sub-committees will be announced and any and all citizens are welcome and urged to join one of the sub committees as volunteers.
The time is past when Beaverlick is just a sleepy little city. The time is NOW to make Beaverlick a hustle-bustle metropolis. “Grow or Die” – the Beaverlick motto for its Bicentennial Celebration.
by Dick Holder
Dearest readers and dearer citizens of Beaverlick, before I continue, I insist on expressing my gratitude to the Gazette’s editorial board for, once again, allowing me, most magnanimously, the opportunity to commandeer space in this august journal for the express purpose of making known the state of Beaverlick. My indelible thanks to the board.
It was but 198 years ago, this Fall that Oriol Lick got hiself a peck a woe when he’d stepped in one of his own infamous beaver clap traps. Having regained consciousness some hours later at the fall of eventide, he found a family of beavers, kits as well, five in all, licking his leg wounds- where the broken bone pierced the epidermis. Oriol reckoned then and there he’d been spared septicemia, and sure death. Then and there, so the legend goes, Oriol repented of hunting beaver; professed he would devote his life to the propagation of beavers, the care of beavers, the freedom of beavers and the everlasting contentment of beavers… and the protection of their habitats.
Oriol Lick House:
Oriol Lick built hisself a cabin on the high bank and and a large mound known today as Beaver Mound. He named the homestead Beaverland. Thirty-five years later a village stood where once there was a lone cabin. Upon the death of Oriol, he fell off Beaver mound ’n’ rolled into a wild briar patch. Brer Buckley Perwinkle found him two days later after a two day search where they looked in all the wrong places – village elders renamed Beaverland to incorporate both Oriol’s favorite pastime -beavers and Oriol Lick hisself. And Beaverlick was put on the map.
As we celebrate, this Fall, the founding of Beaverlick, nee Beaverland, it is well that we remind ourselves that in two years time Beaverlick will celebrate its bicentennial. Preparations have already commenced and I urge every Beaverlicker to join in. In two years time we will demonstrate to the nation our municipal pride, boundless devotion, civic harmony, and love of Beaverlick.
The first order of business will be the erection, on Beaver Mound, of the Oriol Lick and Five Beavers Monument. The statue in bronze on white limestone plinth will welcome travelers as they approach Beaverlick just off I 81 and onto Beaverlick highway leading to Beaverlick proper. This is long past due. The original monument had been shelled to smithereens by Yankee cannon in the Battle of Beaver’s Mound in October of 1864.
The election of Committee Officers will take place during the town council meeting this first Tuesday of this coming September. Sub-committees will be announced and any and all citizens are welcome and urged to join one of the sub committees as volunteers.
The time is past when Beaverlick is just a sleepy little city. The time is NOW to make Beaverlick a hustle-bustle metropolis. “Grow or Die” – the Beaverlick motto for its Bicentennial Celebration.
Community Notes
Births: Mr. and Mrs. Slappy ("Hamsalad") Glintlooker welcomed a baby boy, weighing 7 lbs. and 6oz, and whom they have named "Flick" to spite Mr Clintlooker's mother, Mrs. Glintlooker's father, and Mr. Cranium O'Toole, who lives down the street, and all of whom believe the baby should be named something sensible, like "Edmund" or "Mergatroid".
Dave and Daisy Doodecker announce the birth of their fifth baby girl, who weighed 8 lbs. and 5 oz. at birth and whom they've named "Dipsy". This follows sisters Dotty, Deeky, Dagnar, and Twinkle. Neighbors are outraged, as the family now is collectively so sweet they are accidentally rotting the teeth of all who live around them. Beaverlick police have been called, and the City Council will be voting on a motion to move the family to an underground bunker under Clem Craplin's Burger Barn for the protection of the citizens.
Deaths: Gurd Teethgrit, 85, who lived at 8 Mertyl Perriwicker Memorial Logging Path, perished in an unfortuate accident at his health food store: "Teethgrit's Healthy Foods For Your Face and Drinks Coaster Museum" when he bent down to help long time customer Mr. Seeweed Hoot up off the floor after they had fainted from malnutrition, when a display of vitamin suppliments fell on both of them. Mr. Hoot was injured and survived the disaster, only to be further injured in the hospital when his roommate ordered a cheeseburger and he was overwealmed by the fumes.
Mrs. Helen ("Ironpants") Clambatter, 71, of 14.566 Elmont Plik Memorial Walkway, Apt. #32, second closet on the left, passed away after an extended sulk, the result of Mr. Clambatter's insistance on building a soundproof room off their sun porch where, in his words: "I can read the damned paper in peace!" Burial will be at the Satch Fleek Memorial Gardens, right next to the basketball courts.
Activities: Ula ("The Hammer") Barnsmacker, new owner of the Beaverlck Spatula Emporium, welcomed Mr. and Mrs Derwin (Wynona) Wheeze for dinner and cocktails. A fine time was being had until Mr. Wheeze, when encountering what he called a steak "so undercooked, it was still chewing cud!", waited before Ms. Barnsmacker got up to get rolls to fling his steak out of an open window. Unfortunately, the window was closed and very, very clean. Mrs. Wheeze, who is an assistant manager at the Spatula Emporium, was assured by Ms. Barnsmacker that the incident would have no effect on her job. However, Mr. Wheeze has been banned from the Spatula Emporium, and is currently sleeping on his porch until Mrs. Wheeze calms down.
Births: Mr. and Mrs. Slappy ("Hamsalad") Glintlooker welcomed a baby boy, weighing 7 lbs. and 6oz, and whom they have named "Flick" to spite Mr Clintlooker's mother, Mrs. Glintlooker's father, and Mr. Cranium O'Toole, who lives down the street, and all of whom believe the baby should be named something sensible, like "Edmund" or "Mergatroid".
Dave and Daisy Doodecker announce the birth of their fifth baby girl, who weighed 8 lbs. and 5 oz. at birth and whom they've named "Dipsy". This follows sisters Dotty, Deeky, Dagnar, and Twinkle. Neighbors are outraged, as the family now is collectively so sweet they are accidentally rotting the teeth of all who live around them. Beaverlick police have been called, and the City Council will be voting on a motion to move the family to an underground bunker under Clem Craplin's Burger Barn for the protection of the citizens.
Deaths: Gurd Teethgrit, 85, who lived at 8 Mertyl Perriwicker Memorial Logging Path, perished in an unfortuate accident at his health food store: "Teethgrit's Healthy Foods For Your Face and Drinks Coaster Museum" when he bent down to help long time customer Mr. Seeweed Hoot up off the floor after they had fainted from malnutrition, when a display of vitamin suppliments fell on both of them. Mr. Hoot was injured and survived the disaster, only to be further injured in the hospital when his roommate ordered a cheeseburger and he was overwealmed by the fumes.
Mrs. Helen ("Ironpants") Clambatter, 71, of 14.566 Elmont Plik Memorial Walkway, Apt. #32, second closet on the left, passed away after an extended sulk, the result of Mr. Clambatter's insistance on building a soundproof room off their sun porch where, in his words: "I can read the damned paper in peace!" Burial will be at the Satch Fleek Memorial Gardens, right next to the basketball courts.
Activities: Ula ("The Hammer") Barnsmacker, new owner of the Beaverlck Spatula Emporium, welcomed Mr. and Mrs Derwin (Wynona) Wheeze for dinner and cocktails. A fine time was being had until Mr. Wheeze, when encountering what he called a steak "so undercooked, it was still chewing cud!", waited before Ms. Barnsmacker got up to get rolls to fling his steak out of an open window. Unfortunately, the window was closed and very, very clean. Mrs. Wheeze, who is an assistant manager at the Spatula Emporium, was assured by Ms. Barnsmacker that the incident would have no effect on her job. However, Mr. Wheeze has been banned from the Spatula Emporium, and is currently sleeping on his porch until Mrs. Wheeze calms down.
Welcome To Beaverlick And The Town’s ONLY Newspaper: The Beaverlick Gazette!
Beaverlick: A small town where the vast majority of the townspeople, known as Beaverlickers, spend their lives safely nuzzled in a fragrant and fastidiously manicured valley, nestled between two mountains right in the heart of the American Mid-West.
The Beaverlick Gazette celebrates the ecstasy of Beaverlick achievement that routinely judders the sleepy little valley and exposes the viruses of crime and corruption that occasionally infects the little vale.
The Beaverlick Gazette: bringing small town news to the whole wide world.
-Alvena Coldcock: Winner Of The ‘Introduce Beaverlick To Real People’ Essay Contest.
(Editor's Note: The Beaverlick Gazette Writers are: Modesty Fiona Blaise, Sparky Murphy, George Palczynski, and Kelly J Randall. Artwork by Sparky Murphy and Kelly J Randall. "Stoopid Tunes" by Psykosity)
Beaverlick: A small town where the vast majority of the townspeople, known as Beaverlickers, spend their lives safely nuzzled in a fragrant and fastidiously manicured valley, nestled between two mountains right in the heart of the American Mid-West.
The Beaverlick Gazette celebrates the ecstasy of Beaverlick achievement that routinely judders the sleepy little valley and exposes the viruses of crime and corruption that occasionally infects the little vale.
The Beaverlick Gazette: bringing small town news to the whole wide world.
-Alvena Coldcock: Winner Of The ‘Introduce Beaverlick To Real People’ Essay Contest.
(Editor's Note: The Beaverlick Gazette Writers are: Modesty Fiona Blaise, Sparky Murphy, George Palczynski, and Kelly J Randall. Artwork by Sparky Murphy and Kelly J Randall. "Stoopid Tunes" by Psykosity)
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